Ten Minutes and a Year
by pippychick
Summary: A post series two drabble just to see if I could write them in character before doing something really evil with them.


**Pairing:** Dean/Sam

**Warnings:** SPOILERS FOR SEASON TWO FINALE - You have been warned.

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fanfiction. I do not own Dean or Sam, and believe me I wish I was good enough to make those kind of deals. They belong to Warner Bros and their wonderful writers. Please don't sue me, I don't have a thing.

**Summary:** A post series two drabble just to see if I could write them in character before doing something really evil with them which obviously won't be appearing here.

* * *

It's late when they get back to the motel; dark outside and full of promise. Since the door to Hell was opened - even for that short space of time - there's been so much to do; so many demons and spirits to deal with that Dean can't remember the last time he got a good night's sleep. Though even if it was quiet he doubted he could sleep well again now.

Sam stumbles in to their little room in front of him. It's another one of those with motel stationery and a bible by the side of the one bed. They've been here for two days now; this will be their third night and Dean knows they will move on tomorrow. Even now with all they have to consider they can't stay in one place too long. The police are still searching for them.

His brother doesn't even make his usual comment about there being one bed as he settles upon it without even taking off his mud-covered shoes. It was the only room left the previous night and Dean had taken it without an argument. If they could sleep there, it would be good enough. With a silent sigh and the kind of patience reserved only for Sam, Dean leans over the side of the bed where Sam is already cradling the pillow beneath his head with his eyes closed as if listening to it. It's not much trouble to take off his brother's shoes and make him comfortable. As Dean suspected he's already mostly asleep anyway, and it's a kind of relief for him.

One year. That's fifty-two weeks, and it's been three weeks since the deal was made. That leaves forty-nine. Dean knows it, and Sam knows it too. Something has changed in his eyes, something hurts inside Sam. Dean can't even remember seeing that look when their father died. Not exactly llike it is now. It's almost accusing.

Something serious flits over Dean's face as he places the muddy shoes carefully by the side of bed. "It was a good deal, Sammy," he says quietly, knowing his little brother can't hear him now anyway. "One year," he muses, reaching out to almost touch Sam's cheek with a forefinger, his hand dropping at the last moment the same time as his eyes. "Better than I expected. Hell, I would have taken it for ten minutes."

Suddenly he stands up and walks around the small room, kicking his shoes and socks off, throwing his jacket onto a chair and peeling the blood splattered t-shirt away from his skin to let it drop in an untidy red and white pile on the floor. Just something else that would need to be incinerated tomorrow once they were alone and outside of town. They need the credit card fraud just to keep them in clothes. Dean has one t-shirt that has survived to see three launderette trips. Secretly he calls it his lucky shirt, although technically all it means is that he doesn't seem to get splattered in blood while wearing it.

Dirty, like the shirt, and yet Dean feels good and whole in his skin - at least for now. He pulls a gun from a pocket of the jacket and leaves his jeans on as he thinks about washing and instead just settles on the other side of the king size bed. The bible goes into the drawer and the gun takes its place at his right hand. Something about that would bother him if he let it, but he doesn't let it. He lays for a few moments staring at the yellowed paint on the ceiling with his hands behind his head, then slowly closes his eyes.

"Dean," Sam mutters, and instantly the gun is in his hand. Almost before he opens his eyes he is cocking the trigger and sitting up.

"What is it?" He looks around for a moment, taking in the empty room, then looks down to where Sam is still lying motionless and seemingly asleep. He's almost about to ask again before Sam speaks.

"Ten minutes would have been just enough time for you to lie to me, wouldn't it?" Something cold clutches at his heart, and he doesn't want to do this now. Not now. Sam still hasn't moved, hasn't turned to face him, and so he closes his eyes momentarily in guilt and hurt as he relaxes his grip on the gun and lets the trigger gently back to a safer position.

"Go to sleep, Sammy."

"Just close my eyes, huh?" There's a dark humour in the words and Dean smiles before he can help himself, though it isn't really funny.

"Bitch," he mutters.

"Jerk," he gets back. And he's sorry, but he can't say it. Not now. Because he'd do it again. For being able to kill the demon, but also for this one moment. There's a gentle snore from Sam as he puts the gun back on the bedside table and looks at it there. For a moment he sees a bible instead of a gun, and he shivers. Now he lets it bother him.

_ No one is on our side.  
_

He interlaces his hands behind his head again and lies sleepless for a while as Sam snores. It's warm enough in summer that they don't need the blankets, especially with most of their clothes on. A few long dark moments later and he feels Sam sliding in close to him in his sleep. One hand underneath his back, the other draped over his chest as Sam uses him for a pillow. Dean opens his eyes again, sure that Sam is asleep now because he wouldn't do this if he was awake. But it was always like this when they were kids. Only difference now it that as he looks down the bed he can see all six foot four inches of his brother stretched away at an angle, feet just barely keeping on the giant bed they're sharing.

He moves his hands from behind his head, just so that he can lay one hand on Sam's hair and the other on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he admits at last, because now he sees what he didn't when he made the deal. Like himself sat in front of Sam's dead body, empty and hopeless, everything around him turned to grey ash. One day Sam is going to be in that exact place, and he's put his brother there himself in his selfishness. One day Sam will reach out for him in his sleep and he won't be there.

Maybe he was waiting for this because when Sam clings to him somehow he feels he can relax, and he drifts off slowly, unaware of the single tear that made it's way down his cheek at the moment of his apology.

_ finis _

**Author's Note:** Thank you for reading. Comments welcome.


End file.
